


The Blind

by Lorindel



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/F, F/M, Innuendo, Minor Violence, frolics, histrionics, soapy Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorindel/pseuds/Lorindel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missy haunts Clara's dreams: an abnormality that needs correction, an outlet of Clara's frustration? Or simply the need to fill up the void created by the Doctor ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blind

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor, Missy, Clara, are not my personal properties, and even if it was the case, I wouldn't make any money with them.  
> As usual, warning for streams-of-consciousness style; possible boredom ahead, unless you are keen on thematic/stylistic experiments (and basically, a bit weird, like me :))
> 
>  
> 
> "Contemplate them, my soul; they are truly frightful!   
> Like mannequins; vaguely ridiculous;   
> Strange and terrible, like somnambulists;   
> Darting, one never knows where, their tenebrous orbs".  
> (Charles Baudelaire, The Blind, from Flowers of Evil)
> 
> "I Am Half-Sick of Shadows."  
> (Tennyson, the Lady of Shalott)

"Before everything begins, Clara, have you thought of any regrets you may have? Your past life has been rejected and marred; so, I suspect, sweetheart, that you won't foster some ill-advised melancholia. You'll be damaged, my dear! And mummy doesn't want that, does she? Stop tergiversating; let's embrace your new life whole-heartedly!"

Clara woke up with a startle of sweat. The dream was much of a throwback now, but she still did not know why her delirious subconsciousness was toiling so hard to convey the message. She knew she was eager to figure out her unhappiness, even at the cost of her honesty, and faithfulness to her old friend. Out of pity for her, she understood well she was calling for a saving grace from space, or hell; that mattered not. Danny, leaving her, was not the worst that could have happened to her. The hitch would have been to diligently find herself entangled in a too controlled life that was far away from her nature. But hatching the thought of the Master's return was a bit far-fetched. 

She did not pine for a drink. She poured herself a scotch nonetheless. Too much drinking was not her style; so she knew she would not be overwhelmed. Smoking, likewise, was recommended for fidgeting girls, impossible girl like her. "Impossible girl", seemed, all of a sudden, mutter the wind, and with the long, approaching storm, Clara again heard the whisper, this time more distinctly: "My impossible girl, I'm reaching for you, and soon I'll be clasping you with all my rage, with all my love".

Clara fluttered, and dangled on her feet. Too much alcohol, without any fish fingers or horrible black coffee that could have slowed down the effect. She was getting drunk, because of the Doctor. Mainly, because she was coveting someone as unattainable as she was, when he was still his charming young self and used to coax her with loving nicknames; inventing one every day, just like a child naming things around him, discovering the world for the first time, or a Miltonian Lucifer in space. She took up, at the time (at their time together, Adam and Eve in the Tardis of Eden - she had to tone down her literary enthusiasm, really), this cockamamie fad, as she had herself made it up, as she was not deeply, willingly, passionately influenced by him. 

And more than before, she was hell-bent to set him up and compel him to stay with her. She was free, young, clever; she could show him uncharted worlds; those her thighs enclosed; deep down, or on a ridge of skin, he would find a recess, as well as whirlwinds. 

She burst into a laugh: "Doctor, you will be mine!"- "And you'll be mine too, my dear...", the wind seemed to answer in a sensual whisper. She could almost picture him, sliding through the fanlight a slender leg. She would drag out the rest of his body from the frame, and with a haste that was not stemming from the heat, she would thrust him into a chair; rip out his bow tie; gnaw it, till the silk would surrender. Then, she would slowly swallow the straps, the threads; while he would stare at her, eyes inflamed; hands clutching his lap dizzily. 

The glass escaped her grasp, and scattered on the floor. Clara trembled once again, and collapsed on the disaster. Her loud tamp did not seem to pain the form that loomed over her. Deftly, the shadow tiptoed on the broken splinters and cusped Clara's small, oval face. "You are mine. She is not yours, Doctor. She never was, since my voice reached her through the phone. Do you think you aren't linked to me? I enjoyed so much, vicariously, the pleasure of casting a spectatorial look at you both; waiting, knowing that I would quell your proximity sooner or later". 

The brazen, frivolous eyes caressed the curves of the swooned beauty. The body squirmed, as if it had been touched. The mouth elicited a licentious laugh. The red lips, that the Doctor found tawdry, drafted an emotional smile, while Clara's eyes flickered a silent answer. Without showing any fear, the girl slowly left her recumbent state. She twisted an auburn lock, out of a coyness the Master understood immediately as an invitation to wantonness. But, along with that inducement, an air of sadness was anchoring in her deep, changing eyes, like a promise of a winter that has already come in early. She was gurgling flakes of indistinct words, among which one name was intelligible: repeated religiously, frenziedly, was laid bare the name of the Doctor. 

She admitted, crawling, that she loved him; with her outpouring, anger stood up, and spoke clearly. The abandonment of a medieval maid, after the false, bare oaths of eternal fidelity of her knight, was as painful as Clara's willful dispatch. The Lady of Blackpool had been left in the highest tower of her island castle, and her loom was obsolete in the eyes of many. The curse of being shackled to one place only had suddenly been lift; boundless possibilities were in store for her; she could get everything out of life. Her despair was gradually processed, and will soon fuse into a wholesome simplicity. 

The Master had long been waiting for a surrender that would bring Clara to her sides. It was more effective, however, if the young girl was willingly primed to be overridden by lucidity. The time had come, and many, happy years were pending for their communed dalliance. The Master took Clara's wrist; stroke it gently, before flinging herself to the ground where the girl still lay. She leaned her head till her lips brushed the top of the left ear. Her tongue skimmed over the surface of the lobe; her voice was flattering, coaxing; and Clara felt as she was brought back to her childhood's bed, when she had fallen ill and must be catered with hot, honeyed milch and tender kisses. 

She abruptly swallowed: the Master's ploy, as obvious as it was, was orchestrated with all the art of the weathered artist. Had she not experimented the wicked charm before, she would certainly have fallen for it. At any rate, she could feel the side effects: moisture, desire to yield, famine. The words of the elder woman were destined to quench her thirst; assuage her pain; make her complete. Inwardly, she smiled, like an orator rating one of her peers' performance. She listened, with a sense of awe toned down by a detached irony :

Had the Doctor not been dead, the Master proceeded, she would have brought him back, because she wanted her childhood friend to be happy (with that infantile tone of voice, and her fingers fumbling into Clara's hair). The wanderer had stopped to wander. His last song was intended to her, her companion and putative lover. His grave still voiced his cries of supplication to his best chum; not you, sweetheart, me! 

The Master then revealed to the dozing girl (but more awake than she thought!) that the Doctor had left one message only; to be urgently conveyed to her. She had born it from Tranzalore, compressed on her breast; and she wanted to read it out loud. At will, she made pauses in her exhilarated speech; she was building up an impression in which she herself believed. The fiction was melting into reality; the scenic apparatus was becoming tangible; and even the red rose, virtual image she had conjured up, was eliciting a delicate perfume.

But Clara was not deceived, though she had savored every minute of the performance. For the sheer fun of having exposed the great mind, she ejaculated a mocking laugh. As if the Doctor was mortal, as if Clara did not trust his ability to flight afar from death. He had been immensely skilled in escaping her; and she was far worse than every human liability. Death! But she was death herself; she had barely lived, from the moment where he noncommittally soared up with his damned ship: his haven; her disillusion. 

The Master released her breath at one violent scoop: the exposure of her lies did not adumbrate her impassioned fever. It dawned on Clara that she was sick, sick to the bones, sick to the core; her tricks were mere facades to catch her conscience at the point of breaking-off, and revel in the contemplation of her glorious demise. 

Clara would find her beautiful, when she would have persuaded herself that from this moment onward, her soul was suffused to the brim with the same alluring disease; the one that tears the things left, still half-living, half-hoping, and crushed them down, neatly blinding herself with the smoke screen of incarnated evil, or made-up depression.

If indeed the Doctor had been annihilated, as his nemesis proclaimed, she would turn the tables on this despicable woman and take the torch of revenge. She would break her apart. But it seemed so improbable: the Doctor was the archetype of the tiring immortality of the gods; likewise, he had the smug and the conviction of his righteousness. Had he been alive, he would not have come to her in a jiffy, doggedly accepting the bound of human friendship. No, he had to live up to his reputation of being the perennial absent; the ever-leaving, ever-disappointing. The unpredictable man: in the byword resides his mystery, along with the fascination that he cast on acquiescent, docile minds.

And thus, Clara would imitate his magnificent example in being, as well, unfathomable. As a chastisement he would never be aware of, she would keep the Master at close quarters, petting her, pretending to be in love with her. She would turn her back on him, because of his lack of honor, or nostalgia (regretfully, she had a serious hold on that thing, but that would make her add a credential to her impression: the poor, forlorn girl, still fostering romantic tears, and an irresistible seating duck for another to prey on her. The Master would not resist this). 

Clara smirked, out of cynicism, far from joy: “Master, my Master, you will find me changed, for the best!”. He had impinged on her, and he had promised her all time and space, and he held her space indeed. He failed to perceive he was that space; her own territory of endless (preposterously romantic) illusions. He did not fulfil his promise; he did not fill in the vast, empty arrays of her mind. As topological dreams and escapist lands were hers, he did not take the trouble to contribute to the bucket. 

Now, his untimely regrets would be looked down, while Clara would seize the Master's breast.


End file.
